


you can have my soul to keep

by aceofdiamonds



Series: is that such a stretch of the imagination? [10]
Category: Gossip Girl, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6060655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sick!fic </p>
<p>Blair's head lolls back against the headboard and she blinks against the roll of pain the movement causes. Ugh. "Ron did this to me," she moans. "I saw him sniffing when he was here on Monday."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can have my soul to keep

**Author's Note:**

> because i've got the cold and i live vicariously through blair

  
Blair doesn't get sick. She takes her vitamins and she eats a balanced diet and she gets fresh air on a regular basis so how the fuck did she end up lying in bed unable to breathe without feeling dizzy?    
  
"Do you want some Pepper-Up?" Harry asks when she groans, her feet nudging at his thighs where he's sat by her side.    
  
"No, I hate that stuff," Blair pouts, the burning of her throat still vivid from last time. "Get away from me, Harry, I don't want you getting this."   
  
Although when Harry gets sick he doesn't mope around and demand sympathy like any normal person -- no, he's just a little slower than usual, a little paler, with the occasional burst of steam coming from his ears, and so if he didn't have a few important matches coming up his being sick wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In contrast, Blair is a horrible patient.   
  
"I'll get you some tea," he says, patting her knee through the duvet.    
  
Blair's head lolls back against the headboard and she blinks against the roll of pain the movement causes. Ugh. "Ron did this to me," she moans. "I saw him sniffing when he was here on Monday."   
  
"Send him a Howler," Harry suggests and then throws back his head and laughs when Blair scowls, both of them imagining Blair yelling through the grating of her throat, Ron throwing the letter out of the window with a shudder of fear at the mention of Ginny and Bat-Bogey Hexes and _seeing how he feels_.    
  
"You're being unhelpful," Blair whines, and then, against her better judgement, she reaches for him, hands stopping short of his chest, her fingers opening and closing demandingly before he takes pity on her and shuffles closer, his comfort unhesitant despite the start of the Quidditch season coming up.    
  
Blair selfishly drapes her arms all over his body, clinging to him like a sad, limp, sick little creature, and she lays her head on his chest, seeking out his heartbeat through all the thumping in her head and the ringing in her ears.    
  
"Stay with me?" she asks, quietly, carefully, into his t-shirt, the material soft and slightly damp where her mouth can't close due to the pain of her nose.     
  
Harry's legs stretch out alongside hers, his shoes dropping to the floor as he settles in. She feels him press a cool kiss to her sticky forehead and when she hears him say, "Of course, Blair," she's not entirely sure he hasn't charmed her because she falls asleep instantly, muffled heat and gruffness giving way to a tranquil ocean.    
  
  
.   
  
  
When she wakes again she can hear the low buzz of Quidditch commentary; when she opens her eyes Harry is still there beside her, his radio propped on the pillow on his other side.    
  
"Harry," she murmurs, running her tongue along her teeth, grimacing at the staleness collected in her mouth. Being sick is so undignified.    
  
"How you feeling, babe?" he asks, voice dropped low.    
  
"Gross."   
  
"That matches how you look then," he whispers into her ear and then he kisses her cheek, so stupidly sweet and brave with all the germs crawling over Blair. "Kidding."    
  
Blair responds with a whine and wriggles further under the blanket. It's stuffy under here, hot and sweaty and probably disgusting, but imagining how it might feel to step out onto the wooden floors of the apartment keeps her from venturing out.    
  
"Your mum phoned," she hears Harry say from somewhere above. "She told me to get the chicken soup recipe from Dorota and that she hopes you feel better," he pauses for Blair's reply and continues when there's none, "and I Flooed Molly -- she says fluids and blankets are the best if you're refusing Pepper-Up."   
  
As nice as she is Molly can't always understand that it can be overwhelming to have all these answers and methods thrown on you when you've grown up without magic in your life. Blair appreciates what comes with Harry's magic but she also likes to find a way to balance between the two. She has enough determination and ambition to get so much done without the help of a wand. In this instance, however, she just hates the whole experience that comes with drinking that goddam potion.    
  
"Did Dorota bring the soup?" she manages.    
  
She feels Harry's head shake more than she could see it. She can feel his hand resting on her back through her layers -- she appreciates it. "No. I'm going to Apparate over for it in a bit, d'you need anything else at the moment?"    
  
Blair's mind blanks out when she tries to think and so she raises her hand until her fingers poke into the air and she waggles them in a way Harry correctly interprets as a negative.    
  
"Go to sleep, Blair, I'll be back soon," and again, Blair isn't entirely sure he doesn't drug her or whatever the equivalent is because seconds later her eyes droop and she falls back to sleep.    
  
  
.   
  
  
It's not until the next time she opens her eyes to Harry holding a bowl of soup in front of her that she thinks to ask, "Were you not supposed to be at practice today, Harry?"   
  
And he says, "No, tomorrow," in that quick, obvious way he does when he's lying and he knows she'll see through it but she doesn't have the energy to argue with him and so she lets him guide her into a sitting position.    
  
"You're not sick, are you?" she asks after a series of escalating coughs that leaves her feeling dry and sore. "Cause Teddy is coming over on Thursday and he shouldn't be getting sick."    
  
"Not with Hogwarts after the summer," Harry agrees as he puts the bowl in Blair's lap and encourages her to eat. "I'm fine honestly," and then he grins. "Dorota told me the time when you had chickenpox and you --"   
  
The rest is muffled by Blair pushing her hand against his mouth, trapping the embarrassing memories of dressing up and colouring in her pox marks. She knows what's coming next when Harry raises his eyebrows and she croaks out, "Don't lick my hand, Harry, I've got germs."   
  
He relents, dropping back onto the bed so her hand slips away. "Eat your soup, babe, it smells amazing."   
  
"Don't you go sucking up to Dorota so she'll tell you things about me," she warns, gulping down her soup. She always adds chillies to give it a kick that makes Blair's eyes water in the best way.    
  
"Dorota's loved me since the day she met me," Harry replies with a dismissive wave of his hand, which is true. Dorota had been surprised at first when Blair had arrived home from Italy a few weeks later than expected with an English man in tow and all the airs of being in love. She calls him Mr Potter which he hates and she makes him treacle tart every other week which he loves and her kids have met Teddy a few times now, each of them finding the others wonderfully strange and fun.    
  
"She doesn't know you like I do," which is a weak response but Blair is sick, forgive her for misplacing her cutting wit.

“And you love me for it,” Harry says, smiling, because he always knows he can say that and she’ll smile back because six years in and sometimes she still can’t believe she’s this happy. 

“Can you get me a movie to watch please?” she asks, hand dropping to card through his hair, her thumb resting on his cheek. She smiles at him, just like always, with a touch more patheticness this time around because she can’t breathe through her nose and she hates it.

And Harry, what a boy, what a saint, rolls off the bed to his feet and moves towards the door. “You want me to pick? After last time?”

“This is how much I trust you.”

“You’re delirious,” Harry says, laughing. 

Blair slumps back against the headboard, bowl falling to the bedside table with a clatter. The movement makes her head roar out against her, her ears and throat joining the cacophony. She has so much work to do -- she can’t be brought to her knees by a cold. She sneezes, twice, before launching into a coughing fit. Okay, alright, she’ll concede today to a day of rest but tomorrow she has to get back to work. 

Harry comes back just as she’s shuffled back down under the covers, her toes seeking the warm pocket that always seems to be in the middle of the bed. He grabs Blair’s laptop from the bureau and joins her, the length of him wonderfully warm compared to the block of ice deep in Blair’s chest.   

“Let me see,” Blair insists, whining and scrabbling with her fingers when Harry tosses the empty box to the floor and inserts the disc. “ _ Harry _ .”

“Don’t strain your voice,” he admonishes. 

“If it’s Speed again I’m leaving you.” 

“Hey, that’s a great film. Even Ron said so and you know what --” 

“Oh, Harry,” Blair sighs, resting her chin on his forearm and gazing at the screen. “Roman Holiday.” 

“It’s your sick day film,” Harry agrees, pressing play and then arranging the pillows and covers with his wand so they fit around them perfectly. There’s a spell for everything. “Do you want me to get you some more Soothers? Or tea?” 

Blair shakes her head, lays it on Harry’s shoulder. Maybe she really is delirious but her throat feels a little better already. “No, this is enough. Thank you.” 

 


End file.
